


It's What You Painted (In My Head)

by Rivendell101



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, kind of angsty with a happy ending, side minty and wellven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6629701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivendell101/pseuds/Rivendell101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The earliest memory Clarke has of her soulmate is a nightmare, not a dream. She doesn’t remember much, but what she does remember still keeps her awake at night: a prone body on the floor, vacant eyes, the sound of someone screaming—pleading for help, and a young girl no older than ten with wide, scared eyes staring at broken glass. Clarke was ten when it happened and remembers waking up screaming, her parents sitting on either side of her asking what was wrong, but Clarke was crying too hard to explain what she saw—or, rather, what her soulmate saw.</p>
<p>Bellamy dreamed in color for the first time when he was five years and three months old. He’s not sure how he remembers it so specifically, especially when he was that young, but he’s grateful that the memory stuck because it’s one of the best he has. I wasn’t even a dream, not really. It was just color after color smeared across an endless stretch of white. First yellow, so bright that he thought he was going blind, then red, blue, purple, green, and other colors he doesn’t know how to describe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's What You Painted (In My Head)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marauders_groupie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauders_groupie/gifts).



> I was not expecting this to get so long. At all. I was thinking 5K max, but i guess THAT didn't happen! Have a nice day!

Even though Raven’s long, ugly knit scarf is wrapped from her shoulders to just below her nose, Clarke can tell the other girl is smiling at her—a big, wicked grin that Clarke knows means Raven is up to no good. 

Clarke ignores her, slipping her shoes off her feet and digging her toes into the sand, the tip of her pencil tapping against the blank page of her sketchbook. She frowns, eyes narrowing as she feels Raven’s stare burning into the side of her face. Humming to herself, Clarke makes a show of staring more intently out at the water, expecting Raven to huff and start an argument—because Raven is needy like that sometimes. She’s kind of like a cat that doesn’t like to be ignored.

Instead, Raven stays silent and Clarke becomes immersed in her thoughts, remembering her dream from last night and even the one’s from before that. Not that some of them can be considered dreams. That’s not what she would call them in the slightest. 

The earliest memory Clarke has of her soulmate is a nightmare, not a dream. She doesn’t remember much, but what she does remember still keeps her awake at night: a prone body on the floor, vacant eyes, the sound of someone screaming—pleading for help, and a young girl no older than ten with wide, scared eyes staring at broken glass. Clarke was ten when it happened and remembers waking up screaming, her parents sitting on either side of her asking what was wrong, but Clarke was crying too hard to explain what she saw—or, rather, what her soulmate saw.

That’s what Clarke hates most about having a soulmate: seeing their memories and feeling everything they felt in that moment, except only in fragments. The dreams come in flashes, like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces that don’t fit, or maybe it comes altogether but you don’t remember it all when you wake up, Clarke doesn’t know.

The only thing she does know about the soulmate connection is that she sees her soulmate’s most important memory of the day, good or bad, long or short, as mind-blowing as skydiving for the first time or simple as acing an exam, it doesn’t matter. She’ll see it and they’ll see her’s in return, whomever and wherever they are.

Clarke thinks that’s the hardest part; not knowing where they are. Some people are lucky enough to live within a few miles of their soulmate—like Raven and Wells—and meet them early in life—like her parents did—others live thousands of miles from their other half, separated by oceans and a language barrier that stops them in their tracks.

That’s what happened to Murphy, her kind-of-but-not-really-friend in high school. His dreams were always filled with whispering in a language he couldn’t understand and it made him so frustrated and angry with the world, made him act out and start to hate dreaming so much that he would drink himself into oblivion so that he wouldn’t remember them when he woke up.

That’s also how the sleeping pills and the overdose happened, but that’s not something Clarke likes to think about.

It’s not all bad though, having a soulmate somewhere out there. She’s seen how good it can be to find someone that knows you inside and out and loves every bit of you. Clarke thinks that would be nice—is nice—except for the fact that she has more nightmares than dreams and that absolutely sucks.

She would resent her soulmate for the sleepless nights and monsters in her head, but she knows it’s not his fault that bad things seem to happen to him sometimes. The fragmented memories might keep her awake at night, but at least they aren’t her memories. She’s getting broken pieces of what happened but what he’s seen—what he’s lived through—is so much worse than that.

Clarke only hopes that he get some solace from what her memories paint inside his head.

Clarke shakes herself out of her thoughts, realizing how quiet she and Raven have been for the past few minutes, and chances a look at her friend just in time to watch the scarf slip down and reveal the shit-eating grin on Raven’s lips.

“Oh my God!” Clarke shouts, startling a couple of seagulls walking nearby and sending them screeching into the sky, disturbing the peace. “What?” she hisses at her friend, pushing her hair out of her face dropping her sketchbook back onto her legs, realizing that she’s never going to get anything done with Raven staring at her like that.

Raven’s smile becomes all teeth and Clarke groans, knowing she’s taken the bait. “Your soulmate’s a dork,” she says slowly, enunciating every word in a way that makes Clarke’s eye twitch.

Clarke takes a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut, then gives Raven the blankest, most serious look she can possibly manage. “Your scarf is ugly,” she replies, willing herself not to smile even as Raven expression turns an odd combination of offence and horror.

“Clarke!” Raven gasps, hand flying up and fisting against the multi-colored yarn. At least they like live in a state where the weather is always crap, so Raven actually has a reason to wear the weird clothes that Wells keeps knitting her. It’s a good thing they don’t like a few states over, that scarf would not go over well in the California heat.

But hey! The Washington coast is a great place to always be cold and miserable and wet! Not that Clarke really minds at all. The weather can get pretty hot during the summer and it doesn’t get nearly as cold as some of the other places she’s been.

That and the fact that she knows her soulmate lives somewhere similar, even if she doesn’t know exactly where.

“What?” Clarke grins, “I thought we were just stating facts!” She ducks out of the way of a handful of sand thrown by Raven, who’s pretending to pout while holding back a laugh, which makes for the strangest look Clarke has ever seen. She inhales sharply as she laughs, spit slipping down her throat and making her choke, which makes Raven laugh in return.

“I’ll have you know,” she gasps, “that it took Wells four months to knit this thing!” She grins proudly at her soulmate’s accomplishment, patting the scarf lovingly. Clarke rolls her eyes good-naturedly at the mention of her long time best friend, who just so happens to be the universes perfect match for her newer best friend.

The circumstances of there first meeting were kind of hilarious, in hindsight. Clarke and Raven had both been dating the same douche bag and got into a rather heated argument with him in a public restaurant once they found out—because the idiot scheduled a date with both of them at the same time, at the same place—what a catch—which ended in a new friendship and three dollars worth of soda drenching the aforementioned douche bag.

And well, Wells had a dream about it that night and practically fell in love on the spot. In the morning he virtually ran to Clarke to gush about his badass soulmate and how strong she was—a total badass, that’s what Wells called her. Meanwhile, Raven had a dream about Wells finally making the perfect red velvet cupcake—which he had been trying to do since they were twelve—only to drop it on the floor.

Clarke still thinks it’s absolutely hilarious that Wells got a dream about his significant other giving a beat down to a cheater and Raven got a sad man crying about ruined baked goods. Clarke would have paid good money to have had that dream.

“And it only takes five minutes for us to burn it in secret,” Clarke responds after a short pause, laughing at the offended look on her friend’s face. She’s only joking of course. Wells can’t knit to save his life and the scarf is absolutely hideous, but Clarke would never actually try to burn it—partly because she has a similar scarf from Wells in her closet and partly because Wells loves Raven enough to attempt knitting in general. 

Raven is already firing a response back before the last word leaves Clarke’s mouth. “Your soulmate got drunk and broke into a library!” 

Clarke winces, heaving a sigh at possibly the stupidest thing her soulmate has ever done. Stripping naked and running down the street? Oh, no, her soulmate had to get drunk, break into a library, and then be found trying to read a dictionary upside-down, all before being arrested and spending a night in jail.

When Clarke finally meets her soulmate she’s never going to let them live that down.

That doesn’t mean Raven needs to announce it to the entire world though. “That happened one time!” Clarke hisses back quietly, tossing her pencil at Raven—who throws it back immediately—as she shoots a glare towards Raven, who simply cackles.

“Yeah,” Raven agrees, still laughing. “One time too many!” Clarke huffs, crossing her arms and turning away from Raven, who apologizes sarcastically through a giggle. “All right, all right, I’ll stop,” Raven promises, reaching over to pat Clarke on the arm. “So how is mystery man, anyway?”

Clarke’s eyebrows knit together. “How do you know it’s a guy?” she asks jokingly, unfolding her arms and digging her bare feet further under the sand, the water lapping at her toes.

Raven’s lips twitch. “He got drunk and broke into a library,” she reminds her, balancing one of Clarke’s many pencils on her nose. “That’s seems like more of a guy thing to do,” she pauses, eyebrows narrowing and lips pursing in thought, “or a sexy librarian thing,” she adds, shrugging and making the pencil slip into the sand. She shoots up a second later, hair flying around her face as she turns to Clarke with wide eyes. “Maybe he’s a sexy librarian!”

Clarke chokes, nearly stabbing herself in the eye with the end of her pencil. 

Raven snorts, shaking her head and dropping back down against the sand. “He’s such a book nerd,” she laughs. “It’s kind of adorable when you think about it.” Raven cackles. “I bet he reads history books for fun!” 

Clarke doesn’t tell Raven that he does read history books for fun. She’s dreamed about it before—which was actually kind of interesting, but it makes her sad to think that reading a history textbook makes her kind of happy, so she pretends it never happened.

“Oh, yeah,” Clarke agrees sarcastically, nodding along with Raven. “Book nerd during the day, ultimate fighter by night.” Her eyes narrow. “That sounds like plot of a generic superhero movie. And not necessarily a good one.”

“Hey, superhero isn’t bad!” Raven argues, scoffing at Clarke from where she’s rolled onto her stomach a few feet away from Clarke, her clothes covered in sand—which Clarke just knows she’s going to be finding everywhere in the apartment for the next three years. Sand is like glitter in the sense that it’s there forever and is a complete pain in the ass. “You could do so much worse than generic superhero!” She tugs at her scarf, humming to herself. “He could have been a pest-control guy, or a used car salesman, or in jail,” she lists, ticking each one off on her fingers. “A reptile enthusiast, a dentist, because they’re creepy as fuck so—oh! He could have been one of those asshole comic book guys, or—”

“A guy who cries over pastries,” Clarke interjects, smirking to herself. Her moment of satisfaction is ruined when Raven tosses another handful of sand her way, the clump smashing against her face and breaking apart as some grains slip down her shirt and nearly get into her eye. “Ouch! Raven!” she hisses, glaring at the other girl.

She’s met with a scowl. “You promised you wouldn’t talk about that!”

“You mean like how you promised not to bring up the library thing?” Clarke shoots back. Raven’s mouth snaps shut, lips pursing, and Clarke knows that she’s won this round, which is very, very satisfying. It’s not often that she gets the better of Raven. In fact, Clarke is pretty sure she can count every victory on one hand.

“So what’s new with super bookworm?” Raven asks, changing the subject quickly and fiddling with the end of her scarf.

Clarke sighs. “Well, he may or may not have broken his hand after punching a wall.” She leaves out the fact that he only hit the wall after a nasty argument with his sister—something about her boyfriend that Clarke didn’t quite catch. She also doesn’t mention how his sister screamed at him that he was dead to her and that he broke down crying after she left, barely noticing his broken and bloody knuckles.

“Damn,” Raven mumbles, shaking her head. “Anything else?”

She smiles. “You know how he adopted that dog a last year? Achilles?” Raven nods and Clarke’s grin widens. “Well, he adopted another one yesterday after he left the hospital.” Raven gasps, eyes lighting up and Clarke laughs. “This time it’s a puppy. Some kind of retriever, husky mix.” Clarke smiles to herself, thinking about how her soulmate is such an animal person. “Want to know what he named it?”

Raven stretches out her legs and falls back against the sand. “I’m betting it’s something dorky.”

“Eos,” Clarke tells her, beginning to sketch the water and the cliffs off to the right. “The Greek goddess of the dawn.”

Her friend barks a laugh. “What a nerd!”

“At least he doesn’t knit ugly clothes.”

~//~

“Miller, if you poke it one more time I’m going to smack you.”

Miller’s finger hovers over the cast on Bellamy’s hand, stopping just an inch short of jabbing it like he has been all morning since he realized Bellamy was injured—because of course that’s the logical thing to do when your best friend and roommate comes home from the hospital at three in the morning with a one hand wrapped in a cast and the other holding a puppy that they didn’t have the day before.

Bellamy is a serial pet adopter. Sue him. When he’s sad he goes to one of the many local shelters to play with the animals and almost every time he’s suckered into adopting one. That’s how he wound up with two dogs and a cat and how his friends have all seemed to acquire pets of their own. He could be out causing havoc and robbing banks, but no, he’s just adopting animals and he would really appreciate it if Miller got of his back about it, because Bellamy didn’t even want to keep the cat, Miller did. Miller enabled him, so technically all future adoptions are on him.

Besides, it’s whatever. He’s an adult. He can adopt as many pets as he wants. Or, at least as many as his landlord will allow. He should probably figure out how many that is before adopting any more furry creatures.

Maybe.

His fingers sift through the fur of the puppy sleeping on his chest and Bellamy thinks he can put off talking to his landlord for a few more weeks.

Or forever.

“Aww,” Miller coos sarcastically, “but then you might break your other hand!” he chastises, clicking his tongue at Bellamy and shaking his head. Bellamy thinks it would be well worth the risk if it meant Miller would stop touching his hand like the complete asshole he is.

Hopefully this isn’t the memory his soulmate get’s in her next dream. He would hate for his day to be so absolutely boring that his most significant memory is Miller poking his broken hand repeatedly while Bellamy is helpless to stop it because of the fluff-ball snoozing on him.

Speaking of dreams, Bellamy dreamed in color for the first time when he was five years and three months old. He’s not sure how he remembers it so specifically, especially when he was that young, but he’s grateful that the memory stuck because it’s one of the best he has. I wasn’t even a dream, not really. It was just color after color smeared across an endless stretch of white. First yellow, so bright that he thought he was going blind, then red, blue, purple, green, and other colors he doesn’t know how to describe.

He didn’t know what a soulmate was back then—didn’t have anyone to explain what the dreams were or why he kept seeing memories that weren’t his. His dad left before he was born and his mom was either absent or too high to care.

Now he knows what the dreams are and who they belong to and Bellamy is so, so grateful that his nights are filled with smiling faces and explosions of color. He needs those dreams when the days get especially hard: when Octavia gets sick or his rent is due but he’s a hundred short because he spent all of his money on books and dog food, or that time Miller ended up stranded in Mexico with no way home, or even all those times back in high school where Bellamy went home with a split lip and bruises on his knuckles and jaw.

His soulmate is an artist. He knows because he’s seen the sketchbooks and the clothing splattered with paint and the landscape canvases lined up against the walls of a flat in every color in the spectrum. He knows because he’s gone through the highs and lows with her, watched her paint the beach on a quiet morning and saw through her eyes the rage that goes into splatter paint. He’s watched her break brushes and pencils and wash lead and charcoal from her palms and seen streaks of blue paint smeared through blonde curls.

His soulmate is an artist. And Bellamy is so, so thankful that he’s gotten to see the world through her eyes—she the things she’s painted in his head and how she’s made the darkest points in his life seem just a little bit brighter.

His soulmate is an artist and he can’t wait to find her someday. 

Miller pokes the cast again and Bellamy curses, jerking his hand out of his best friend’s reach and shooting him a poisonous look. Miller just grins back.

“At least you had the common sense not to punch the wall with your dominant hand,” he tells Bellamy, as if the statement is helpful in any way at all. Bellamy thinks if he had any common sense at all, he wouldn’t have punched a wall to begin with. It’s just that Bellamy doesn’t think when he gets upset, he just reacts and usually that ends with more than a few bruises on his part.

Miller nudges his shoulder and Bellamy sighs, glancing down at his friend from his position on the couch. Miller is sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, fiddling with his beanie and avoiding Bellamy’s eyes. “What, Miller?” 

The other man clears his throat. “So, two questions.” He looks at Bellamy. “Question one!” He points at Bellamy’s cast. “Will you be able to hide this?” he asks, poking Bellamy for emphasis.

“Why would I need to hide it?” Bellamy grumbles, swatting Miller away for what feels like the thousandth time today. He’s not sure what the exact number is. Partly because he doesn’t care to keep track and partly because he was never that great at math. He was always more of a History-English kid back in high school. Besides, kids who are good at math are always dicks about it. It’s whatever though. Nobody actually needs to know advanced calculus in the real world. Except for his soulmate’s crazy friend who’s an actual rocket scientist or some other crazy thing. Or maybe she’s just a mechanic that thinks she’s a rocket scientist. Bellamy doesn’t know but he really wants to meet her.

Miller fidgets on the floor, now pulling at carpet fibers. It takes Bellamy a moment to realize he’s blushing. Miller coughs, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “Umm, well, Monty’s coming over.”

“Oh! Monty!” Bellamy gushes sardonically. “You mean the cute pizza guy from a couple months ago that ended up being your soulmate that I still haven’t met yet despite you two dating for over two months now? That Monty?” And yeah, maybe he’s a little bitter that he’s been so busy juggling two jobs that he still hasn’t met Miller’s soulmate. And maybe he’s even more bitter because he hasn’t met his own soulmate yet and everyone else in his life seems to have found there’s already.

It sucks, knowing there’s someone out there for you, but not knowing where to find them.

Miller has the decency to look ashamed as he rubs the back of his head. “Yup, that Monty.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes and then frowns, remembering Miller’s question. “Wait, so why do I need to hide my hand?”

Miller sends him a wry grin and Bellamy is suddenly very sure that Miller is actually the Devil. “Because I don’t want him to know that I live with a complete freak just yet,” he tells Bellamy, patting his shoulder.

Bellamy glares at him before sticking out his tongue. Miller just laughs like the asshole he is. “You’re really pushing your luck today, did you know that?”

Miller huffs, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Okay! So don’t hide it!” he exclaims, clearly exasperated, but only in a playful way. “Can we at least say that you broke it doing something cool?” 

Bellamy decides not to comment on the fist-shaped hole in the wall right near the door—which Miller placed a frame around in a feeble attempt to cover up the damage. In hindsight the whole thing is kind of hilarious. You know, besides his broken hand and the property damages.

Which reminds him of the time his soulmate did the exact same thing—that is, shoving their hand through the drywall. Their friends are never going to let them live that down. Ever.

“Like what?”

Miller shrugs halfheartedly. “I don’t know. Wrestling an alligator?” he suggests weakly, giving Bellamy a noncommittal hand wiggle before reaching out to pet the puppy.

“Yeah, because there are so many alligators here in Seattle. Which Monty would totally believe considering he’s lived here his entire life.” Bellamy snorts, chuckling under his breath and accidentally startling the puppy, waking her. She yawns, stretching slightly before settling back against his chest, tail wagging as she licks his chin. “Sorry, Eos,” he murmurs to the puppy, who yips in response and licks his face again completely unaware of Miller’s existential crisis. 

Miller glares at him. “Well, I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas!” Bellamy opens his mouth to say that, first of all, neither is Miller, and second, this isn’t Bellamy’s problem so Miller needs to get off his back and calm down, but Miller continues before he can. “Besides, it was a better suggestion than vampires.”

Bellamy groans and slaps a hand against his face, wondering how bad it would be if he killed Miller right now. He could probably hide the body before anyone found out—well, other than his soulmate, but they don’t know who he is, so it would be fine. Harper would totally help him do it too, considering that time Miller cheated at poker. “Miller just let it go!” he pleads, exasperated. He’ll never quite understand Miller’s utter loathing for the Twilight franchise, but Jesus, Miller just needs to let it die already! “It’s been like six years, get over it!”

“No!” he shouts back, snarling at Bellamy. “I’m never going to let it go!” he spits, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. From where he was asleep in the corner, Achilles growls, roused by the suddenly loud voices. Miller lowers his voice slightly, narrowing his eyes. “Bellamy, do you know how many times—”

He cuts Miller off. “Yes, I know exactly how many times girls have asked you to bite them. Why? Because you remind me off it every damn day!”

“I don’t even like girls!” Miller continues, blatantly ignoring Bellamy. “And they keep asking my to bite their necks—which is just really fucking weird because usually it’s in public and I am so not into that!”

Bellamy sighs. “Miller.”

“And Twilight didn’t even take place in Seattle! Not once in four books!” he continues. “The films weren’t even made in Washington, they were filmed in Oregon! Our beautiful state has been slandered by glittery Dracula wannabes and—”

“I don’t care, Miller!” Bellamy cuts him off, tossing his hands up and waiting for the universe to put him out of his misery. He isn’t exactly sure why everyone things Miller is so broody and sullen when in reality he’s like this. He must just have a broody face or something. Or maybe it’s that damn hat he always wears. Stupid beanie. 

Dammit, Miller said he had two questions. Great. They’re probably going to spend the next hour arguing about the filtration process of the kidney and how Miller would definitely donate one of his kidneys to Bellamy in the event of an emergency, but only if Bellamy promises to return the favor someday—whatever the hell that means. “What’s your second question?”

Miller blinks at him, eyebrows knitting together and Bellamy is pretty sure that he’s forgotten what the question was, and then— “Beanie or no beanie?” he asks completely serious, shocking Bellamy, who stares at him in confusion.

“Didn’t we have this same conversation when you started dating Bryan?” he asks slowly, recalling a similar situation two years ago that went disturbingly like this one. That is, Miller freaking out and having an emotional crisis about whether he should or shouldn’t wear his old beanie around his new boyfriend and Bellamy not really caring and apparently giving Miller the complete wrong answer every time he was asked.

It was a stressful week for the both of them leading up to the fifth date and Bellamy wasn’t even going to be there.

Miller looks at him like he’s stupid. “Yes,” he says slowly, “but it’s a very important question.”

Bellamy sighs, glancing passed Miller’s head at the clock on the wall, groaning when he realizes he needs to be at work in a little over half an hour. Bartending is really going to suck, what with him only having one good hand, but it’s either go to work and get paid so he an make rent or be kicked out and try to get Octavia to forgive him—which he is not going to do because this time he’s not the one who was wrong.

“It’s a hat, Miller. Whether or not you wear it makes no difference to me.” Besides, isn’t this like fifth date already? They’ve known each other for roughly three months so Monty has definitely seen the hat already so what does it even matter—you know what? Bellamy doesn’t even care anymore. If Miller wants to freak out about his hat and hide his boyfriend away then he can do that. Bellamy doesn’t want any part in it.

It’s quiet for several moments.

“So should I wear the—”

Bellamy snarls. “Just wear the hat!”

Miller releases a strange hissing noise before making a show of yanking the hat over his head while glaring at Bellamy, but he’s saved from more arguing by a knock at the door.

Achilles glances at the door, but seems otherwise uninterested, merely curling up tighter on his bed and going back to sleep. Bellamy snorts. Some guard dog. 

Heaving a sigh, Bellamy stares at the door, not noticing Miller going rigid and slightly pale, his eyes widening. “Who the hell is that?” he grumbles, sitting up and cradling Eos with one arm as he swings his legs over the side of the couch, nearly kicking Miller, who still hasn’t moved. “Miller?” He nudges his friend with his foot, confused, and Miller finally looks up at his, looking almost nervous.

“He’s here,” he whispers, freaking Bellamy out.

Bellamy is pretty sure he heard that line in a horror movie once when he was a kid. Or an alien movie. Probably both.

“Who’s here?” he asks slowly, glancing at the door just as the person on the other side knocks again. 

“Monty,” Miller responds softly.

Bellamy blinks at him. “So when you said he was coming over you meant literally?” Miller nods. “Good to know,” he tells him sarcastically. “Now go answer the door and let your boyfriend in you loser!” 

Miller scrambles to his feet, nearly tripping himself as he rushes to the door and jerks it open, a smile splitting his face as soon as he catches sight of the person on the other side. “Miller is so stoic!” they say. Yeah, and Bellamy eats babies for breakfast. Get it? It’s false.

Laughing to himself, Bellamy heads for the door just in time to watch an ecstatic Miller pull a short, flushed Asian kid into a hug. He watches Monty’s smile widen as he returns Miller’s hug, but then his eyes slip to the side and his face twists in confusion. Bellamy nearly cackles when he realizes Monty is looking at the framed hole in the wall over Miller’s shoulder.

Great work making him think they aren’t freaks, Miller! Monty definitely doesn’t think there’s something wrong with them now!

Miller pulls back from his soulmate with a megawatt grin and Bellamy is pretty sure he’s never seen a smile like that on Miller’s face before, and that honestly makes Bellamy incredibly happy, because that means Miller is happier than ever before.

“Bellamy!” Miller calls him over, tossing an arm around his soulmate. “This is Monty!” Miller smiles down at Monty as he continues. “And, Monty, this is Bellamy.”

Monty’s eyes practically light up, whether that’s because of Bellamy or the puppy in Bellamy’s arms is a mystery. Actually, Bellamy would place money on the puppy. Everyone is a sucker for puppies. If they say they aren’t they’re a liar. 

“So you’re the platonic life partner!” Monty says excitedly, reaching out to shake Bellamy’s hand. “Hi, I’m Monty! Nathan’s soulmate!” 

Bellamy’s smile falters for a split second at Monty’s words before blowing up wide. It’s strange to hear people actually call Miller by his name. He’ll have to break Monty of that habit as soon as possible. As if sensing his thoughts, Miller turns to him and glares, shaking his head harshly. Bellamy only grins wider, making a grand show of grabbing Monty’s hand in a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Monty. I’m Bellamy, the platonic life partner,” he responds. Monty laughs and releases Bellamy’s hand in favor of scratching Eos behind her floppy ears—to which she has no complaints whatsoever. 

Oh yes, Bellamy’s already scoring points with the new boyfriend. Gold star for him! And he’s not even a little bit ashamed of using the dog do get those points. All’s fair in making your best friend’s boyfriend like you by using a cute dog.

Bellamy turns to Miller. “Is that really what you tell people I am?” he asks, still smiling.

Miller shrugs. “Everyone already knows I’m gay and you’re…” he trails off for a second, frowning slightly, “whatever exactly it is you are and I got sick of telling people we’re just roommates and them not understanding that that means we aren’t sleeping together,” he explains. 

Bellamy blinks at him and then shrugs. “I just tell people you’re not my type.” But hey, if Miller wants to be platonic life partners, Bellamy is game. Miller’s mouth drops open in offense and Monty chokes on his spit, coughing loudly. Bellamy grins. “I like him, Miller. He thinks I’m funny!” he stage whispers, making Miller roll his eyes and Monty smile.

“I think you would get along great with my friend Jasper,” he tells Bellamy.

Bellamy nods. “I’d love to meet him sometime,” he says honestly. “You should bring him with next time you come over. That way we can make fun of how grossly in love you two are together.”

Miller scoffs. “We aren’t in love!” He glances at Monty, smiling. “Yet,” he tacks on.

“Yeah?” Bellamy casts a look at the clock, nose wrinkling when he realizes he has to leave now if he wants to be on time. “Tell me that again when I get home from work,” he jokes, handing the puppy over to Miller before grabbing his keys and wallet.

Miller rips the keys from Bellamy’s good hand a second later. “What the hell, Bellamy?” he sputters. “You just broke your hand, you can’t go to work!” Bellamy starts to argue, but Miller raises a hand to stop him. “How are you going to bartend with only one hand, huh?” Bellamy sours when Miller says the exact thing Bellamy was thinking about earlier. “You’re going to look pretty stupid trying to mix drinks with one hand!”

Monty glances between the two of them.

“Yeah, well it’s either I make a fool of myself, or we finally kidnap Harper and force her to live with us and pay rent,” Bellamy jokes halfheartedly, forcing a smile as he grabs his keys back from Miller.

Miller’s smile mirrors his. “I’m game for kidnapping.”

Bellamy laughs and claps Miller on the shoulder. “Yeah but I’m not game for dying tonight,” he jokes, thinking about what Harper would do to them if they did try to kidnap her. He shivers slightly. “Also, I can’t wait to tell your police officer father what you just said.” Miller laughs. “I’ll be fine,” Bellamy promises. “Remember to let the dogs out later, okay?”

~//~

Bellamy isn’t sure how it happens. He never even saw the other car coming. He heard it though, the screeching of the tires and the blaring of a horn—his horn as his head slammed forward against it. And he felt it too—felt his bones bend and break, felt the bruises beginning to form and the blood dripping down his collarbone and under his shirt, felt his car crumple in on itself like it was nothing, felt his entire left side flare with an excruciating pain, and felt his head slam forward against the steering wheel, an explosion of white and then a thousand colors blinding him.

He thinks he be dying in the split second where everything goes white, and the only thing running through his head is how much he hopes his soulmate doesn’t have to see this—how she doesn’t deserve to have this be her last dream—how she deserves better than never getting to meet him because of a stupid car accident and an idiot that ran a red light.

Bellamy doesn’t see his life flash before his eyes, but he does see canvases full of color and a worn out sketchbook sitting on top of a cluttered desk situated under a window. He sees a gravestone on top of a hill and sea of people in black. He sees a canvas of angry red and bruised purple and a boy that broke two girls’ hearts in one second and that same boy being made a fool of in the next. Bellamy sees a white wedding and a couple smiling as they say their vows to love each other forever. He watches as a shy boy kisses his own soulmate for the first time and a younger version of that boy covered in spaghetti noodles and tomato sauce, one arm poised to throw a meatball while the other brandished a pot cover like a shield. He sees a pair of the bluest eyes he’s ever seen before in his life staring back at him in a mirror, locking with his and stealing his breath away like a long kiss goodbye.

And then everything goes black.

~//~

Clarke eyes snap open, an awful sound piercing the air around her as she realizes she can’t breathe. The door bursts open, Wells nearly knocking the door off it’s hinges as he shoves his way into the room, Raven right behind him with a crutch in one hand and a metal bat in the other. It’s only then that Clarke realizes the sound is her screaming, but she can’t seem to bring herself to stop, even as her lungs start to burn and Raven settles onto the bed next to her, arms curling around Clarke tightly. Wells stays back, eyes wide and horrified as he stares at Clarke and the tears streaming down her face.

Clarke’s scream finally chokes off into a heaving sob and she clutches Raven desperately, nails digging into the back of her shirt as she remembers headlights and the awful sound of metal crunching against bone and the sight of blood trickling into her eyes.

Her eyes squeeze shut tightly, jaw clenching as she tries to hold back the sounds threatening to leave her. Her throat tightens as an invisible fist closes around it, squeezing and stealing the breath from her lungs as more flashes of the dream appear behind her lids. She tries to block them out, not wanting to see them again, but one image makes her eyes snap open wide, heart skipping a beat.

“—ospital,” she croaks, voice thick and brittle as it cracks, Clarke unable to control her crying. “We have to—hospital,” she babbles. Raven pulls back, cupping Clarke’s face, but Clarke rips herself away, twisting off the bed to stand on shaking legs. “He’s hurt,” she mumbles to herself. “And mom can—car.” She squeezes her eyes shut tightly, fingers fisting in her hair. “Been in Seattle this whole time,” she moans, doubling over and feeling like she’s about to be sick.

It’s cruel, really. That she finds out her soulmate has been twenty miles away from her this whole time, the two of them only separated by a short distance and close enough for Clarke to reach out and find him—only for her to only realize it while he’s being brutally ripped away from her, possibly dying right now—or maybe he’s already dead and she’s too late. Maybe she’s missed her chance to meet the person that’s shared her head-space for the past twenty two years.

“Clarke,” Raven whispers, catching her elbow and pulling her back upright. Clarke opens her eyes and meets Raven’s nervous ones. “Did something happen to your soulmate?” she asks slowly. Clarke opens her mouth, but Raven shakes her head, hushing her, so she nods instead. “And they’re at the hospital in Seattle?” She nods again. “Oh my God, your mom is the one operating on him…” Raven murmurs, yanking Clarke into an embrace. “Don’t work,” she whispers. “He’s going to be fine.” Raven strokes her hair. “I promise he’s going to be fine.”

Clarke can’t find the words to tell Raven not to make a promise she can’t keep.

The next half hour is a blur of Raven and Wells helping her to the car, Wells driving while Raven settles into the back beside Clarke, curled around her and whispering empty promises to the blonde while Clarke stares blankly at the back of Wells seat. She tries to focus on something other than the shaking of her hands and the sound of his car crumbling in on him during the impact—which keeps running through her head like some kind of twisted symphony of screams and broken bones, sirens and the squeal of tires moments before impact. Clarke can truly say that she’s never heard anything quite so horrible before in her life.

And the whispering doesn’t stop. Clarke just keeps mumbling nonsense to herself, the words nothing but static in her mind, but at least they ground her to what’s actually happening and remind her that she’s alive. She wasn’t in that car and she’s fine. Only, that thought makes her feel even worse, because maybe she wasn’t in that car, but he was.

He was in that car and he could be dying or already dead and Clarke doesn’t even know his name or his favorite color or if he’d like to visit Europe or if he lives superhero movies or—

“Clarke,” Raven whispers through her thoughts. “Just breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

Clarke tries to tell Raven that she’s trying. She’s trying so hard to breathe right now, but she just can’t. Her lungs don’t seem to be working properly and she can’t inhale without sobbing and choking on the words leaving her mouth, but, God, she’s trying. Half of her heart is being ripped away from her in this very moment and she just can’t breathe.

And maybe she doesn’t want to.

Clarke has never felt quite like this before in her life. Not when she had that panic attack back in third grade, not when her dad was killed in that car accident when she was seventeen, not even when her mom told her she was dating Marcus Kane, one of her father’s closest friends. None of those even compare to feeling like her heart has been ripped straight out of her chest and someone is dangling it in front of her and squeezing it.

And she knows that this is exactly how her mom felt when her dad died. How she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t speak in anything more than one word, broken sentences. Abby Griffin felt it as her husband died in the middle of the night, woke up screaming and crying and begging for the pain to stop as her other half was taken from this world and sent to the next.

Clarke thinks that she shouldn’t be hurting this much, not like her mom hurt. Her mom lost a soulmate she had been with for twenty years and Clarke is losing someone she’s never even met. It shouldn’t hurt that much.

Only it does.

Maybe it hurts more.

Because at least her mom had the good memories to fall back on, things to smile about and pictures to reminisce the good days and night. All Clarke has is twenty two years broken memories and maybe’s and what-could-have-been’s

Clarke doesn’t remember driving to the hospital. She doesn’t remember entering Seattle or the hospital parking lot. She doesn’t remember Raven and Wells guiding her into the building or the people who stared at her trembling form. She doesn’t remember being led to the front desk by gentle yet firm hands or Wells demanding—Wells never demanded—to know where Clarke’s mom is. 

Then she sees Jackson, a nurse and close friend of her mother’s and it’s like the world goes into sharp focus and everything is clear. Her hands stop shaking and her heart stops racing and suddenly she can breathe again.

“Jackson!” she shouts over Raven and Wells’ argument with one of the night nurses, gaining his attention. She pulls out of their grasp, stumbling forward as Jackson stops in his tracks, staring at Clarke with wide, confused eyes. “Jackson!” she repeats, nearly tripping over her own feet until Wells catches her, one arm snaking around her waist to hold her up right. “Jackson,” she whispers a third time.

Jackson appears in front of her a second later, hands on her face and then her arms. “Clarke,” he murmurs. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? I don’t see anything wrong with—”

“Jackson,” she cuts him off. “Where’s my mom?” He pauses in checking her for injuries, staring down at her in bewilderment. “Jackson you have to tell me where my mom is. Please, Jackson, tell me where my mom is,” she babbles, words slurring together.

“What?” he finally says, voice cracking. “Clarke, she’s performing a surgery right now. What’s wrong?” he asks. “Do you need her for something? Because I can help you with whatever it is, but I can’t—”

She cuts him off. “The patient she’s working on! Jackson, who is he?” He stares down at her in silence, mouth agape. “Please, you have to tell me who they are, please, I need to know. I need to know who they are, please just tell me who they are,” she mumbles, the sentences running together like a prayer.

Clarke has never believed in a God before, but she thinks she’s about to start.

“Clarke!” Jackson snaps, shaking her shoulders. “What in the world are you talking about?” 

She takes a deep breathe through her nose, closing her eyes and trying to calm herself down so that Jackson can understand. She really needs him to understand right now. “The patient she’s working on,” she finally says, slower this time. “You have to tell me how he’s doing.” Jackson begins to shake his head, but Clarke reaches out and grabs his sleeve. “Please, I need to know.”

He sighs, looking down at her apologetically. “Clarke, you know I can’t just give out confidential patient information. I could lose my—”

“He’s my soulmate,” she tells him, voice cracking horribly.

Jackson stares down at her for several seconds.

“His name is Bellamy Blake and he’s not doing very well.” Her face must crumple, because Jackson’s grip on her shoulders tightens, holding her steady. “He’s alive, Clarke, he’s alive and he’s fighting. And you need to calm down and take a seat in the waiting room and have a little faith in him, because he’s fighting, Clarke, he’s a fighter.” 

~//~

Clarke isn’t sure how much time has past sitting in the waiting room. It’s like time doesn’t exist in the small room with other people pacing and praying and waiting to hear some good news about the people they care about. There’s no clock on the wall, nothing to show how much time has gone by—how long she’s been sitting here waiting for something—anything really. She just wants to know something about what’s going on.

At first, she tried watching the other inhabitants of the room, seeing what they did, but after seeing a woman with two children break down and watching a young man in a rumpled shirt and grey beanie pace with red-rimmed eyes and tears streaming down his face, Clarke simply couldn’t do it anymore. Mostly because she saw a part of herself in them and didn’t want to face that.

She turns slightly, twisting towards the wall and resting her head against the cool, white brick, eyes squeezing shut tightly, arms slinking around herself protectively. The room is unusually crowded tonight, at least, that’s what Clarke thinks. She doesn’t want to think about how many people in here are going to be getting bad news.

She really doesn’t want to think that she might be one of them.

Clarke opens her eyes slowly, glancing towards to doorway to see if Raven and Wells are back yet. They aren’t, and she wonders if they’re just taking an exceptionally long time getting coffee for the three of them or if they’re purposely giving her space to sort out her thoughts. She isn’t sure, but she’s grateful either way. The space, well, she needed it. She needed the time to figure out exactly what was happening and what she’s going to do if it comes to the worst. 

Someone drops onto the chair beside her and Clarke’s head snaps up, meeting dark brown eyes filled with tears and a small, sad smile that’s so, so fake that Clarke chokes up. It’s the guy with the beanie, she realizes a second later, giving him her own watery smile.

“Hey,” he greats her, voice cracking. He looks away from her a moment later, gaze drifting to the doorway much as Clarke’s had earlier.

Clarke stares at him for a second longer before her gaze drops back to the floor. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?” Clarke’s head snaps back around to him, eyes wide. “You looked upset when that nurse led you in,” he continues. Then, he huffs a laugh. “I mean, we’re all pretty upset if we’re sitting in here waiting for…” he trails off briefly, then clears his throat, “but you especially,” he tells her, pulling off his hat and twisting it in his hands.

Clarke sends him a small smile. “I’m better now,” she says softly. “Just waiting for something good, I guess.” 

“Yeah?” he says it like a question, glancing at her with a similar smile. He nods. “Me too.”

Clarke lets out a watery laugh. “I think we all are.”

He chuckles with her. “I think you’re right,” he agrees, ceasing twisting his hat in favor of picking at it. “You know, my best friend gave me this hat when I was twelve. It was Christmas time and it was the only thing he could afford.” Clarke isn’t sure why he’s telling her this, but finds herself listening intently, if only because his voice is a welcome distraction. “He gave me this hat,” the man continues, fiddling with it. “It was three sizes too big for me kept slipping off my head.” Clarke gives a short laugh that sounds more like a cough than anything else. “And it used to be blue, not grey, but I’ve worn it every single day my life besides both of my graduations and his mom’s funeral.”

He turns to Clarke. “That’s who I’m waiting for,” he tells her. “The person who gave me this hat that I barely ever take off. I don’t think he even remembers that he gave me this, but I do, and it’s special to me because of it.” He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “So, who are you waiting for?” he asks.

Clarke smiles for real this time, suddenly feeling better than before. “His name is Bellamy Blake.”

He turns back to her, eyes narrowed in confusion. “You know Bellamy?” he gasps.

It’s like a bucket of ice water is dropped over her when she realizes he’s here for the same person she is. Clarke smile trembles and she shakes her head. “No,” she whispers. “I don’t.” He keeps staring and Clarke manages to force the words out. “He’s my soulmate.”

The guy laughs, running a hand across his face and wiping away a tear. “I’m not even supposed to be here,” he tells her, coughing slightly. “His sister is his emergency contact, but she’s out of state.” He turns in his seat, facing her head on. “I’m Nathan Miller,” he introduces himself, holding out a hand for her to shake. “Bellamy always calls me Miller—well, everyone kind does now.”

She grabs his hand. “I’m Clarke,” she whispers. “Could you—could you tell me about him?” she asks. “Please? Because I’m terrified that I’m never going to—”

“His favorite color is blue,” Miller tells her, cutting her off. “But not just any blue, more like the color of you eyes.”

Nearly an hour passes before Clarke realizes how long she’s been sitting there silently, just listening to Miller talk about Bellamy in so much detail that Clarke feels like she already knows him. And then her mother walks into the room and doesn’t even bat an eye at Clarke, probably already filled in by Jackson or Raven or Wells, just tells the two of them that Bellamy is awake and he’s going to be just fine and they can visit him one at a time before she leaves just as quickly as she was there.

Clarke cries.

Miller cries too, but she pretends she doesn’t see it.

She relaxes in her chair for the first time in hours, finally letting the tension slip from her shoulders as she breathes a sigh of relief. Clarke closes her eyes, waiting for Miller to leave the room to go see him.

“You should go.”

Clarke’s eyes snap open again. “What?”

He smiles down at her. “I said ‘you should go.’ ” he repeats, jerking his head towards the doorway. “Go see him,” he tells her.

Clarke shakes her head. “He’s your best friend,” she points out.

“And he’s your soulmate,” he urges her. He sees her open her mouth to argue and laughs. “Clarke, go,” he chuckles. “Bellamy is my best friend and as his best friend, I’m telling you to go see him, because I know he really wants to see you.”

She stands. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Clarke isn’t exactly sure how she makes it to the room, the memory is a blur of excitement and white walls, and by the time she enters Bellamy’s room she’s so relieved that she just bursts in without knocking.

The room is average, a normal hospital room. White walls, a bed, and a couple of plastic chairs for visitors. 

And then there’s Bellamy, just like the picture Miller showed her, if not a little worse for wear. He blinks up at her from the hospital bed, eyes tired and face pale, making his freckles stand out even more than she thinks must be usual. His dark curls are falling into his eyes and she thinks she sees his jaw jump when he sees her. His face is covered in superficial cuts and bruises, a particularly nasty one running along the curve of his cheek bone. There are bandages wrapped around his chest, peeking out from under his shirt and he is absolutely breathtaking—the most amazing thing Clarke has ever seen before in her life. The air is ripped from her lungs much as it was early tonight, only this time Clarke thinks it’s a good thing.

She wets her lips, staring at him for almost too long, but he says nothing, just waits for he to speak. And she does. “Hi,” she whispers, smiling at him as she steps further into the room, shutting the door behind her with a click. “I’m Clarke,” she tells him, taking another step. “You don’t know me, but—”

“Soulmate,” he croaks, cutting her off softly. “I saw your eyes before I blacked out,” he explains, noticing her confusion. Bellamy sends her a tired smile and her heart skips a beat. “How’d ya’ know I was ‘ere?” he slurs, drowsy from the medication.

Clarke smiles down at him and settles into the chair next to the bed. She lifts one hand, only hesitating for a second before reaching out for his. He meets her halfway, catching her palm in his gently, thumb rubbing back and forth against the back of her hand slowly as their fingers twined together naturally.

“My mother was the surgeon that worked on you,” she explains. “You must have been slipping in and out because you saw her and I knew where you were.” Clarke smiles as Bellamy chuckles, even though there’s nothing funny about the situation. “We’ve only been twenty miles apart this entire time.”

Bellamy barks out a laugh, but ends up wheezing and pressing his free hand—the one already in a cast, she realizes—against his chest, couching harshly, yet still laughing through the pain. “I can’t believe I had to fracture several ribs and total my car to finally meet you,” he jokes, grinning up at her.

Clarke squeezes his hand, laughing with him. “You scared me half to death,” she tells him.

Bellamy smiles. “I’ll try not to do it again.”

“You better not.” Clarke smiles too.

~//~

Sometimes Clarke finds it hard to believe it’s been three years since they met.

She sighs, nestling her cheek against his bare chest as they lie together on the couch, her on top of him, fingers grazing the uneven skin of his ribs where the bones had knitted back together poorly, leaving a distortion beneath the flesh that’s hardly noticeably to those who don’t it’s there. Her pointer finger traces the black ink staining his skin just above the mended bones and he shivers, looping an arm around her waist as she places a soft kiss against his chest.

“You know,” Clarke whispers propping her chin up on his chest, hair tickling his skin, “you’re not supposed to get names tattooed,” she chides him, finger tracing the letter ‘C’ slowly. “It’s supposed to be bad luck,” she explains. “And bad Karma.” She clucks her tongue at him, moving on to the ‘l’.

Below her, Bellamy laughs, his entire torso rising and falling, taking her with him. His hand slips under the hem of her shirt, smoothing up her back in long, even strokes. “I’m also not supposed to have more than two pets in this house, according to my landlord,” he muses, “but I have four.” Clarke frowns up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion as she cocks her head to the side. Bellamy sends her a wry smile. “Jasper counts,” he states. 

Clarke huffs a laugh, burying her face against his neck. “Jasper does not count,” she scoffs, placing a sweet kiss against his shoulder.

“He totally does,” Bellamy insists, giving her waist a squeeze. Clarke shakes her head, laughing against his neck, her smile tickling Bellamy’s skin. “Clarke, he does! He sheds everywhere and I have to pay to feed him two meals a day!”

Clarke sits up against his chest, swatting his shoulder. “He’s not a pet,” Clarke argues, rolling her eyes at him and reaching over his head to pull her sketchbook from the side table before settling back against him.

Bellamy huffs as she shifts, squirming to find a more comfortable position. Once she settles his hands go back to her waist. “What are you drawing?” he murmurs, running a hand through her hair and resting his chin against the top of her head.

She pauses in flipping through the pages. “You,” she starts, “and all the things you’ve painted inside my head over the past twenty five years.” She sets the book on the floor and turns to him, propping herself up on her elbows to look down at him. “It’s part of a new series I’m working on. It was Monty’s idea,” she explains, resting her head on her palms. 

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” he tells her, rising up to kiss her cheek.

Clarke grins down at him. “So,” she sings. “Are you going to hurry up and propose now?” she asks him. “Or is Raven going to have to entertain the children for another hour while you work up the courage to pop the question?” she finishes innocently, saying the word “children” sarcastically in reference to their ragtag group of friends.

Bellamy groans, flopping back down and tossing an arm over his eyes, his other arm slipping off Clarke’s waist to dangle over the couch. So much for a surprise apparently. They would be so much easier if you didn’t have the love of your life inside your memories every single night. It kind of ruins the entire element of surprise. “Damn soulmate dreams,” he curses, swearing under his breath as Clarke laughs at him, prying his hand away from her face.

“Hey,” she smirks, “it’s not the dreams fault that that’s the most exciting thing you did that day,” she teases him, poking his cheek and laughing at him.

He frowns up at her. “Important Clarke,” he corrects, “not exciting.” He rolls his eyes at her and she swats his arm playfully. “And what else was I supposed to do? Go jet skiing for the first time to throw you off?”

She gasps, looking offended. “You think jet skiing is more important than proposing to me?” She pretends to pout.

“Now you’re just twisting my words”

“I am not,” she argues, sitting up all the way and dragging Bellamy up with her by the shoulders. He quirks a brow at her, clearly not believing her and Clarke laughs. “Bellamy, I’m not!”

He chuckles with her, looping his arms around her back and giving her a quick kiss. “So, Clarke griffin, want to marry me?” he asks casually, dark eyes meeting hers and softening when she smiles. “I would offer you the ring, but it’s in my sock drawer.” 

She pretends to think about it, making a show of humming and tilting her head to the side in thought. Bellamy rolls his eyes at the display, but lets her have her fun. “Yeah,” she finally decides, slipping her arms around his neck. “I think I do,” she tells him.

 

“Oh?” Bellamy laughs. “You think?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yes,” she stresses slowly, playful. “Bellamy, I will marry you.”

And that’s what he had been waiting for. Bellamy practically lunges to his feet, yanking her up with him with his arms around her waist and lifting her clear off the ground, laughing into her hair as he buries his face into her. Clarke shrieks at the sudden shift in gravity, hands clutching at his shoulders and legs winding around his waist as he spins them around in circles, nearly bashing his knee against the coffee table. He’s pretty sure he can hear her heart beating out of control as he spins them around, but that might just be his own pulse flooding his ears. He can’t tell the difference and he doesn’t really care at this point. He’s just so damn happy and he’s pretty sure the smile isn’t going to leave his face for at least a week.

Bellamy pulls back, meeting her eyes and seeing the happy tears gathering there. And then he leans down, kissing her softly. She smiles against his mouth and he releases her after several long seconds, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she teases, looping her other arm around his neck, fingers tugging at his hair. He takes the bait, leaning down to kiss her again, only harder this time, mouth pressing against hers with just enough pressure to make her head spin. His teeth nip at her lower lip, followed by his tongue brushing over the same spot. A small sound leaves her throat, but he swallows it quickly, pressing closer. He groans against her mouth, his tongue sliding across the seam of her lips once more before he pulls back from her completely, ignoring her pout. 

“So I was thinking a spring wedding would be nice.”


End file.
